


Mr. Self Destruct

by Defiler_Wyrm



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (the Other is a fucking machine), Aftercare, Anal Sex, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Clubbing, Comeplay, Communication Failure, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Facials, Fisting, Flashbacks, Fucking Machines, Gang Rape, Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Party, Hypothetical Tony Stark/Bucky Barnes, Large Cock, M/M, Memory Loss, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, References to Drugs, Sex Addiction, Sex Toys, Sexual Fantasy, Steve Rogers has a Great Big Dick, Threesome - M/M/M, Threesome - M/M/Other, Top Steve Rogers, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-04-21 08:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22057324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defiler_Wyrm/pseuds/Defiler_Wyrm
Summary: He's not sure if Hydra put this hunger in him, or if he's always been like this, but the Winter Soldier (mission alias: James "Bucky" Barnes) has aneedhe must fulfill—whether it be in the back room of a club or in his room with a marvelous Machine—in spite of the terrible memories that tend to take over in the moment. He'dreallyprefer it if his handler, Captain Rogers, would step up to the plate to feed him...and given the chance, "Bucky" will do anything he can to have it that way.Or: Bucky is addicted to dick but often suffers flashbacks when getting his fix; strangers, Tony, and Steve all help out in different ways.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Hydra Agents, James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Male Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 44
Kudos: 341
Collections: Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2019





	Mr. Self Destruct

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seinmit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/gifts).

**Music pounds in his ears** from all directions, a beat so heavy it drowns out the sound of his own rushing blood. He’s on the hunt and surrounded by prey. Or maybe, no, that’s not right—they’re on the hunt for him. The stink of sweat and leather and a hundred different colognes assaults him. It keeps him tethered to the moment while his memory does its best to drag him away. He lets his body move in sinuous rolls, arching into and away from the anonymous hands sliding smooth across his hips, the hard planes of his belly, the meat of his ass. It’s muggy beneath the neoprene that hides his face from the crowd but he’s worked (and been worked) under worse conditions than this. It’s worth the slight discomfort of a mask to protect his privacy while putting himself on display.

He has a need to satisfy. As an appetite, as he thinks of it; an aching flame inside him. He can’t be sure, but he suspects it was implanted in him by his captors, though for all he knows he’s been like this all along. A hard body presses up behind him, plastering a stranger’s front to his back, and they roll and sway together with imperious hands roaming over each other’s forms. The stranger guides his hips and holds them together in an intimate grasp. Even through his leather pants and the stranger’s vinyl ones he can feel what he’s in for soon.

Good. Perfect. They dance like that a while, with him flexing as he pushes back to make an invitation of his own, and soon the stranger’s smoothing back his hair to murmur in his ear: “Wanna take a break?”

He nods, and the stranger takes him by the hand—the right one, he makes sure—and guides him to the restrooms. As they enter, a twink who's barely drinking age at best straightens in surprise from where he was hunched over the sink, coke still dusting his nose. _ That would be nice _, he thinks, but then remembers the last time he was coked up that he killed fifteen people in a few minutes’ time, some of them his own team members. He shies away from the thought.

The stranger is handsome in the new harsh light and not shy at all. The man tries to tug his mask down to kiss him, but he catches the wrist—_ gently, now, don’t break his bones _ —and the guy just huffs and kisses his neck instead. He gets turned around to face the mirrors and it’s _ on _now, he’s so close, he needs it so fucking bad his right hand trembles as he unlatches his belt. He peels his pants and thong down to his thighs and spreads his feet, leans forward, strains for the sound of belt, fly, and lube-up behind him. No condom wrapper. It’s always a toss-up in the clubs. His supercharged immune system plowed through gonorrhea like a mild cold once in the 70s and he’s not concerned tonight. He just needs— He needs—

“Fingers?” the stranger asks him.

He shakes his head and reaches back to pull his own asscheek aside. “Cock.”

And finally, finally, he gets it.

The fire in his veins rises. He feels like a starving man sitting down to a feast. His body resists only for a moment and then it’s sinking in and filling him up and oh god that’s better, that’s so much better, he’s_ needed _ this so bad. He fucks like a tiger—this stranger is in for a ride. He can give as good as he’s getting, at least in terms of how he reins in his strength so as not to send the guy flying by pushing back with his greedy ass.

The stranger is _ noisy _ and that’s the way he likes them. He likes the noise of the club scarcely held back by the restroom walls. He likes the groans, the crack of skin on sweaty skin, the way he gets to grunt and moan as the stranger’s cock plunges wetly into his hungering guts. It’s the only way he can keep the memories at bay—strange, when they’re so similar, these flashes of half a dozen men holding him down and taking him one after another after another, two and three at a time, mocking his appetite and his desperation to sate it. Sometimes they’d let him moan. Some of them liked that. Most wanted him to be a quiet doll for them so he prefers to make noise now.

He’s been hard for a while and it doesn’t take much more of the man’s powerful, rabbit-fast fucking to make him spill across the counter. He’s a little overstimulated now and this is when it’s best: when he can forget about chasing an orgasm and give in to being used, to let someone fuck him hard and dirty and selfish. He meets his own gaze in the mirror. His sweaty hair hangs down over his face, and the mask—even with its fierce half-skull pattern—and the tight black leather covering him from neck to fingertips send him tumbling into the past.

It’s someone else behind him, uniformed and gunpowder-pungent, and the others (oh fuck, oh yes, they’re waiting hopeful aren’t they) are the same. The lieutenant slaps his ass as he pumps come into him, pulls out slow, gathers spilled seed with his cock, and pushes it back into his hole. The compliments murmured around him sound like English but register as Russian. So too does the voice of the next agent swaying close and asking, “Mind if I cut in?”

The lieutenant slaps the bottom of his ass and says, “That’s up to him. You up for another, sexy?”

It’s...it’s a very strange thing for a team leader to say. But he’s nodding before the man is done speaking, and it feels like an eternity before the next man shoves his cock inside in a single, showy thrust. He appreciates the attempt to impress him. This second agent holds him by the hip and the hair and does not tell him to be quiet, so he lets himself be loud. He comes easily for this one, too.

The third does wear a condom. By then he’s filled with enough mess that it doesn’t dry him out too badly. A fourth wants his mouth and tries to lift his mask but gets his wrist snatched up for it; the lieutenant tells him, “Yeah, don’t do that.” So the man contents himself with the hole that’s on offer when he gets his turn. It’s a nice big cock that gets him off yet again and leaves his insides raw and pleasant-aching so he forgives the earlier transgression.

It isn’t until the lieutenant— no, fuck, he’s not— damn it, it happened again—_ the first stranger _ takes a second turn that the burning need inside him is finally fulfilled and the haze of memory lifts like fog at dawn. Someone’s fingers push come back into his satisfied hole and he purrs, stretching, holding his cheeks open for his suitors to admire. Someone notices he’s shaking and mercifully helps him clean up. Three of the four leave phone numbers for him. All three slips of paper end up in the trash on his way out of the club. He’s gotten what he needs for tonight, and the next time he’ll have no trouble getting it again.

\----

**The trouble is** that the Winter Soldier (mission alias: Bucky Barnes)_ can’t _ always slip off into the night to get fed. He’s still under a lot of scrutiny, having come in from the cold a mere four months ago. There are a lot of rules, which isn’t out of the ordinary, but they’re _ new _ . He has check-ups and check-ins and whitecoats and _ “therapy”. _ One time when he overheard someone bat around the idea of putting a tracking device in the arm, he made it all the way to Jersey before a flying suit of armor with _ rocket hands _ picked him up.

This is the sort of shit he has in his life now. Sometimes he finds himself wishing he could just crawl back into his cryo chamber and sleep until things are less weird. 

But that’s not in the cards, so he has to deal with his handler Captain Rogers being weird and nervous around him, and something called _ refeeding syndrome _ that made life a special kind of hell for a while there, and absolutely no one around him understanding what he means when he tries to tell them he needs to be _ fed. _

Well. His “therapist” (a programmer, he figures, who’s out to use words instead of the Chair) cottoned onto it once, and then there were terms flying around like “retraumatizing” and “not able to give meaningful consent” that just frustrated him until they both dropped the subject. He never brought it up again, but the message was clear: his new keepers aren’t going to give him what he needs.

So sometimes, as regularly as he can, he bypasses the Tower’s security (actually he’s pretty sure the nice talking building is just opting to turn a blind eye to his escape) and stalks off into the night, on the prowl for as much dick as he can get on short notice; but most nights, he just fucking suffers.

\----

**They’re not exactly trusting him** with money, fully, but he does have his own allowance, and there’s something about being able to buy things just because he wants them that helps him feel more like a person and less like a machine. The Soldier (Bucky, he’s supposed to say Bucky) is no fool: he’s already figured out that he can sometimes buy things on his (monitored) allowance card, return them for cash or prepaid cards, and have _ personal _ items delivered to a different address.

This system works wonders once he discovers the wild world of sex toys the 21st Century has to offer.

He has no illusions that his growing collection is truly secret, not in a place where the walls literally can talk, but he’s proud of his stash all the same. He started with standard ones that look like capsules or human penises and branched out from there. Some have ridges and flares, wild textures to titillate his prostate and hole, dramatic bulbs that stretch him wide once his ass swallows them up, some shaped like two dicks pressed together, some fantastical and bizarre. Most of them are very large. The biggest are forearm-thick for when he aches to get fisted but can’t leave the Tower. They’re a real workout.

They’re still not the real thing.

On the upside, he can fuck himself as long and as hard as he wants and never has to worry about someone on the other end tiring out, or coming early, or having too long a refractory period. On the downside, the texture and temperature are never quite right, and he misses having hands all over him, and damn it, sometimes he’d like to not be the one doing all the work.

That’s where the Machine comes in.

It takes a long time and a lot of sneaking around to save up enough money to afford it; memories of impossibly long ago rattle around in his muddled head, making the price tag seem unfathomably high. Getting it into the Tower is, frankly, horrible, because the box is big. But he’s goddamn good at what he does so it makes it to his room all the same. 

It makes it to his room, and out of the box, and into a neat sorting of parts, and— He needs a hex key. What the _ fuck _ is a hex key. He stares at the instructions, willing his fried-out brain to come up with something, _ anything, _ useful for this situation. There’s an illustration of the tool and it prickles at his memory without summoning anything but the impression of a name. It’s a…. A man’s name. Henry screwdriver. Albert wrench. Something like that, _ fuck _.

Finally it occurs to him that he has what his programmer (sorry, _ therapist _ ) calls prosthetic memory: his phone. The way these devices have changed every time he woke up from the ice still makes his head spin, but he fishes it out and uses his right hand to thumb out the words: ** _What is a hex key_ **

The internet gives him the answer and he blows out a long breath. Now he just has to_ find _ one.

Easier said than done. His handler is out but he doesn’t know for how long, so he searches the rooms of their floor in a hurry. There’s no Allen wrench to be found. Sighing again, he turns over his next and basically last resort: the Mechanic. The Mechanic has tools aplenty in his workshop. Bucky’s been there plenty of times for maintenance on his arm and they have something of an Understanding between them: largely a ceasefire on the terms that neither of them mentions Howard or Maria Stark.

That still doesn’t mean Bucky relishes the thought of the Mechanic’s chatterbox nosiness. He just wants to borrow a tool, put his Machine together, and ride a damn dildo for an hour or two. It takes some doing to talk himself into heading down to the workshop but damn it all, he does so, taking one of the screws with him (as the internet informed him hex keys come in different sizes).

It would be too much to ask for to find the place empty, but then he’d probably just set off an alarm by going in uninvited and end up with a suit of armor pointing its laser hands at his face, and he’s not in the mood to deal with _ that _, either. It’s a moot point anyway, as the sound of heavy metal vibrating the walls on the way down announces the Mechanic’s presence. Bucky has a moment of vertigo as he slinks to the glass door, reminded fitfully of his clandestine descent into any number of nightclubs in search of a good feeding.

The building’s serene voice says something he can’t quite hear on this side of the glass wall, and the Mechanic looks up, spots him, and beckons him inside. The music fades as he enters, thank god. He holds onto the screw between the mismatched fingers of his hands, fiddling with it as he gathers his thoughts.

“Buckyball, what brings you all the way down here?” He watches Bucky from his perch on a stool, grease-smeared and underslept.

“Tony,” he nods. He glances down at the screw, then back up, around the room, back to Stark. “I. I need a...a thing.”

The Mechanic’s eyebrows rise and he gestures broadly with a coffee mug. “You have come to the right place, probably. What kind of thing?”

Fuck, what was it called. Why does this guy make it so hard to think? “Hex key. Allen wrench.” He thrusts the screw out, holding it at full arm’s length. “For this.”

Tony’s dark eyes light up. He slips gracefully off the stool into a trot that brings him close enough to swipe the tiny thing. “Allen wrench, huh? You putting together some furniture? You and Cap hit the IKEA?”

He has no idea where the IKEA is, but the sudden thought of his handler—of _ Steve _— finding out about the Machine makes his guts churn and his face burn. “No. Just mine.”

Stark eyeballs the screw’s socket and makes for a tall shelving unit brimming with bins and drawers. “So, what, exercise equipment?” He gives Bucky a look. “I’ll only be a _ little _ insulted if that’s the case. Not like we have an entire floor or two full of state-of-the-art training equipment designed specifically for Enhanced individuals like yourself. You can use that whenever you want, by the way, it doesn’t _ have _ to be the middle of the night.”

Bucky bristles out of embarrassment. “I know,” he says defensively, “it’s just better if I’m alone.”

“Some things are, some things aren’t,” the Mechanic shrugs, rummaging through a small drawer. God damn he talks a lot. “Speaking of which, you want a hand with this….” He gestures vaguely with the Allen wrench he’s just selected. “Workout bench, fuck machine, whatever it is you’re putting together?”

The Soldier’s (no, no, _ Bucky’s _) face heats up even worse. “I. It’s not. I’ve got it.”

And Stark must see something in his blush that tells him exactly what Bucky didn’t want him to know. He strolls right up close, takes Bucky’s hand, and presses the screw and key into his clammy palm. “Sure you don’t need a spotter?” he says low, making it sound far more suggestive than the words can account for.

A switch flips in his head. The embarrassment melts away the moment he recognizes the sort of hunger in the Mechanic’s eyes he’s seen in a hundred men before, and his own hunger rises to answer. Tony’s hand is still around his. Bucky catches himself biting his lower lip, and catches Tony’s eyes darting down to watch.

“Would you just spot, or would you get in there and help out?”

The Mechanic sucks in a deep breath through his nose. His pupils dilate with clear want, but he looks away instead of holding what Bucky hopes is an inviting gaze. “Tempting, you don’t even know how tempting, but I don’t think Rogers would be too thrilled if I stepped all over his turf like that.”

Bucky restrains the urge to gnash his teeth. Damn it. Of _ course _ his handler would have final say over this. Not that he’s doing anything about the problem his damn self.

“I can put it together,” he mutters, stepping back from the Mechanic. “Thanks for the Allen wrench. I’ll bring it back when I’m done.”

Tony waves him off. He’s trying to act casual as if he isn’t half-hard in his pants. “Keep it. I’ve got plenty and it’s fucking ridiculous you don’t have a single one on your floor.”

Bucky nods and retreats. He heard the _ Don’t come back _ loud and clear.

\----

**The Machine** is a modern miracle.

Bucky fucks himself into oblivion on that thing. He goes through an awful lot of lube in the two-and-a-half-hour-long first session, after modifying a few toys to work with the attachment rod. The Machine is indefatigable. The Machine never stops unless he tells it to. It can go as fast or as slow as he wants at whatever angle he wants. Any size and shape of cock, hard-pumping and ready to wreck his hole.

He spends half the session lost in memories of being gang raped and the other half practically sobbing at how much control he now has over his own pleasure.

It’s far from a perfect solution, though. The Machine doesn’t come inside him, or grasp him by the hips, or pull his hair, slap his ass, squeeze his tits, any of a hundred things he yearns for. He resorts to doing many to himself, but it’s just not quite the same. There is certainly a degree of filthy satisfaction in pushing his own semen into his gaping asshole, but only ghosts stand around him jeering as he does so.

The other downside to the Machine is that it’s noisy. He can be quiet enough when riding a dildo under his own power but his new friend’s motor doesn’t share in his concerns. He saves it for when Steve isn’t home, at first, too afraid of being found and punished if he doesn’t wait. But damn it, he can’t wait forever for his new owners to decide they want to use him, or deign to feed him. He can’t wait for Captain Steve Rogers to stop being so tentative and just _ touch him already _ as is his right to do.

So it happens that Bucky is enjoying another nice, long session on the Machine when his phone buzzes on the nightstand. He ignores it, though it jerks him back to the present. Suddenly he’s no longer in a concrete cell having his legs held open while the seventh guard in a row thrusts into his puffy hole, but in a posh suite overlooking Manhattan riding a dildo shaped like what some dirty-minded artist imagined a gryphon’s cock would look like, and it’s 2015, and someone’s texting him.

Bucky growls in frustration, grips his cock, and ignores it.

The phone buzzes several times. He comes for the _ n _th time and ignores it still. Eventually it goes silent, and he slips back into the memory of servicing his team in some frozen Hell whose name he can’t recall.

But then it buzzes again and _ keeps _ buzzing—it’s the sound of a shock stick warming up, and he tenses, making the man currently taking him feel big enough to split him open. That’s what it’ll be like when they hit him with it. His muscles will lock up, the air in his lungs will become fire that spreads through every cell, and as he screams whoever is having him will feel _ immense _. He whimpers, hating the fact that part of him is looking forward to it despite how much he fears the pain.

The odd thing is, the shock never comes; the baton just keeps revving and revving. It’s almost like—like—no, it’s not a—it’s a phone. It’s _ his _ phone, he’s in his flat in New York and his breath is coming in great heaving gasps and fuck, he’s not sure why but he’s crying. 

Bucky slows the Machine down to a gentle stop so he can catch his breath and wipe his eyes. He counts backwards from ten, three times. He shouldn’t keep doing this. Maybe his therapist was right and he’s not ready for it.

The_ need _ is there all the same, no matter if he’s ready or not.

And in the meantime someone’s still calling him. No, not someone; he knows exactly who it must be. Refusing his handler’s summons would have been completely unthinkable under Hydra, but now he’s on a much longer lead, so he decides to press his luck, and continues to not answer the phone.

He gives himself a few minutes to come down and check himself for injuries. His guts protest their aching emptiness the moment he slides off the foot-long dildo he’s been using and they don’t let up from there. Bucky stares at it for a long moment with only the sounds of his breath, his blood, and the oh-so-faint whisper of Manhattan’s din below to fill the room. The attachment stands proud and ready, a cock that will never soften, starting and stopping only at his will. It will only ever enter him when, where, and if he wants it.

And he does want it.

Memories curl around his throat like a bitten squid trying to strangle a whale. He shakes his head as if that could clear his mind, as if he could cast them off like cobwebs—as if they don’t cling all the same. No one else is going to see to his feedings. It’s up to him to sate himself.

Well. If he’s going to do this, and he is doing this, he’s going to need something else to think of in the process. It’s not challenging to come up with a likely option.

He smears a generous helping of lube on the toy and imagines it’s his handler’s cock that he’s getting ready. No, not his handler; _ Steve _. There’s still a part of him that thinks of the man that way, a siren song pulling him along by sections of his heart he hadn’t known were there. That part has been growing in increments since he came in from the cold.

He imagines Steve inhaling sharply at Bucky’s warm hand on his prick. It’s already hard and ready for him, full of want reciprocating his own. He settles those great big hands on Bucky’s hips, thumbing the furrows of his Adonis belt, and Bucky shivers. Steve whispers a command to turn around and Bucky obeys, joyfully he obeys, and settles himself in place, and in reality he turns a dial.

Daydream-Steve breaches him easily; Bucky’s kept his pussy (would he want to call it that?) soft and ready for him. Experience has made him easy to penetrate but it’s still a lot to take in. His daydream-Steve is implacable in pushing inside; Bucky sighs happily as he takes it all, every last inch, and Steve wastes no time in getting down to business. No hemming and hawing here, just confident touches, confident thrusts.

Blood rushes to his cock and his thighs tremble. He hears himself whisper, “Oh god yes, Steve, you’re gonna make me come fast, baby, keep going, just like that.” It’s very different from the muteness of his memories—his fractured mind tries to spring a trap on him and show him how it _ used to be _ when men fucked him with his mouth held shut or stuffed full so he couldn’t speak, but this time he fights it: _ fuck you, this is for me. _

More and more he lets himself rock back against the cock drilling his asshole. He aches for it._ Burns _ for it. Pleasure zings around his well-stretched hole and makes his balls ache to spill again, even though he’s lost count of his orgasms today so far. He imagines Steve petting his hair sweetly and kneading the meat of his ass. His metal hand, the steadier of the two, adjusts the dial bit by bit and his mind adjusts the fantasy to suit.

Hair stands on the back of his neck. He’s not alone—but he isn’t being attacked. He can’t smell the metal that would give away a knife or a gun, so he wills himself to relax and pretend he hasn’t noticed. Anyone who knew him well enough would know he had by the whir and shift of his left arm’s plates, but there’s only so much he can control.

He lets himself moan as he opens his eyes. Though he’s not looking directly at the door he can see in his periphery it’s standing open now and his handler—his _ Steve _—is standing there in shock. He closes his eyes again.

The fantasy lies in shards around him. Surely he’ll be punished for this. Or. Or maybe it will finally get across the message of how much he needs this, how much his ass needs to be stuffed to the brim with cocks and come on a regular basis. He can hope for things now, right? So Bucky hopes, and he arches his back in a way he hopes is sexy, and he moans Steve’s name again.

That, finally, gets a reaction.

“_ Bucky. _”

It’s quiet, and urgent, and more than a little lost. When nothing more follows, Bucky murmurs again as if to his fantasy, or to an empty room: “Needed this so badly, sweetheart, I couldn’t take it anymore.” He licks his lips lasciviously, dragging his teeth across the lower one. “You know what I could really use right about now?”

“What,” the real Steve croaks from the doorway.

He opens his eyes again and looks the man dead in the eyes. “Something in my mouth.”

Steve is in civvies, his hair a mess, and he smells like sweat and stress. He’s already edging into the room and closing the door behind him when he speaks again. “I. I tried to get ahold of you. Thought something was wrong.”

“I was busy,” he says in an apologetic tone somewhat ruined when his breath hitches mid-word.

“So I see.” Steve still looks like he’s seen a ghost but from the state of his trousers it’s a ghost he’s glad to see. “I. I should leave.”

“Don’t go. Already told you what I need.” He lets his head fall but tilts it to look up at his handler through the curtain of his hair. “The Machine is, ohh, is good but eventually I—ah!—I need the real thing.”

Steve staggers over to stand before him and for a blessed moment his crotch is right in front of Bucky’s face, making his mouth water. But he hesitates, and asks, “Can I kiss you first?”

Bucky’s breath catches again but it’s not from the dildo’s wonderful pressure on his prostate. That’s his heart clenching, that’s something deeper singing _ yes yes yes god please _, and that’s his voice saying “Kiss me forever,” and that’s his mouth meeting Steve’s as strange tears fall.

He doesn’t kiss his conquests in the clubs. They only ever touch his mouth in the darkest places, and only to push their cocks between his lips. He’s pretty certain no Hydra agent thought to kiss him, ever. But kissing Steve feels like homecoming—like a longed-for embrace on a train platform, like stolen moments, like a Russian word that makes his heart race with fear. He twists the dial to tell the Machine to fuck him faster as their tongues meet and their teeth meet each other’s lips. They kiss hungrily, as hungry as this dire need _ someone _ put in him to be fucked and fucked and fucked, and he spoke true: he wants Steve Rogers to kiss him until the end of time.

But, on the other hand, he also wants Steve Rogers to fuck his face, so he pulls back to kiss and nip down his neck while unbuckling his belt like a pro. “Don’t hold back,” he whispers, and stares Steve in the eyes as he swallows him down to the hilt.

“Oh _ god, _” the real Steve whimpers. Instantly he has his hands in Bucky’s hair and his hips buck forward as if he could bury himself deeper in his Asset’s throat.

Bucky sucks with all his might, and Steve wails and goes weak in the knees.

Damn, does that feel good.

He hums approval and pulls back most of the way—god damn that’s a nice long dick, and thick too, it’s _ perfect _—so he can take a breath, and starts to bob. Bucky deep-throats like the old hat he is, and as he dives down to slide that delicious length down his own gullet he pulls Steve’s hips forward, egging him to thrust. It takes a minute to get the message across, and he’s slow to start, but eventually Steve grips him gently by the hair and pounds his cock into Bucky’s eager, open mouth.

And Bucky—he doesn’t know quite what to do in his own head about the Machine still railing his ass, but when the silly fantasy of _ two _ Steves presents itself, he mentally shrugs and goes with it. This is just what he needed, a chance to get fucked from both ends without careening off into the void of his memories of countless rapes.

Steve maintains eye contact most of the time, even when Bucky’s eyes are streaming tears from the fervent facefuck. It grounds him in the present—at least until he thinks, he _ thinks _ this feels familiar, too, Steve’s cock stuffing his throat and leaking salty pre into his mouth.

“God you’re so beautiful,” Steve whispers, hitchingly. “Never thought I’d get to do this with you again. Fuck, I hoped, baby, I hoped we would. Didn’t know you needed it. You must need it so bad, using a rig like this.”

“Mnn-hmmh,” Bucky agrees. _ Pal you’ve got no fuckin’ clue _.

“You wanted it all the time back—” Steve falters, both in his words and his thrusts. Bucky helps get him back on track with a nice long suck. “Before. D’you remember, sweetheart? How you’d get on your knees for m...ohh, oh god, Bucky...get on your knees for me and beg so sweet?”

“Mm-hmm,” Bucky lies. Now he wishes he could remember that, though.

A beautiful, surprisingly wicked smirk curls Steve’s mouth. “D’you remember how many times I can give it to you?”

Bucky’s eyes widen. He stops Steve long enough to pull off and tell him, urgently, “You should remind me.” And then he gets back to work providing a hot, wet hole.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, and gets back to work fucking Bucky’s mouth in hard, fast thrusts.

Ever the gentleman, Steve allows Bucky moments to get air here and there, but he doesn’t sacrifice much intensity. His cock starts straining and leaking pre more copiously, and finally, he pulls back to hold the proud purple head of his cock on Bucky’s tongue and floods his mouth with shot after shot of thick, salty come. Bucky groans, tenses up, and grabs his own aching cock—that alone is enough to make him shoot off, too, the Machine still pumping his ass full of silicone dick all the while. He sticks out his tongue to show off Steve’s mess to him, swirls it around the glans to collect anything he missed, and swallows it happily down. Steve groans as Bucky sucks his dick clean but soon pulls away, oversensitive.

So he kisses whatever part of Steve he can reach, panting and grateful. “Thank you,” he heaves, “thank you, thank you.”

Steve kneels to kiss him again with the taste of his sperm still soaking Bucky’s tongue. “Thank me an hour from now,” he purrs, “when I’m actually done. You feel up to doing the work this time, sweetheart?”

Dazed, Bucky nods, not quite understanding what he just agreed to until Steve stands and shows off his beautiful, enormous, _ still-hard _ cock. Bucky groans all wanton and grabs for the base to hold it still as he slurps it down. Now Steve’s hands merely rest on his head as he lets Bucky take over, gently petting his hair and tracing his ears with ticklesome fingertips. Last time Bucky was desperate for it; this time, he focuses less on getting a load in his mouth and more on taking Steve apart at the seams.

As experienced as he is with polishing dicks, he is very good at it. He knows countless little tricks to make a man melt: flourishes with his tongue, feeling out how much if any teeth to use, how to treat the balls. It turns out Steve likes a good firm tug to the sac to go with fancy tongue action. But Bucky’s no one-trick pony. He goes through most of his repertoire. He might be showing off.

He looks up into Steve’s glassy eyes, drinks in the sight of him slack-mouthed and blushing. Oh yeah. He’s definitely showing off for that.

It’s not, of course, the first time he’s used an artful blow job to impress someone—but it’s different when it’s driven purely by desire to please without the deathsome fear of failure. It feels like a revelation: he wants to please his handler, but not the way he’s wanted to please them before, so they’d hurt him less; he wants Captain Rogers to be happy with him—_ proud _ of him, if such a thing is possible. The thought of it makes him glowy-warm inside, melty, somehow. And when Steve murmurs praise and pets his hair, oh, that feels every bit as good as the steady plowing he’s still getting from the ever-thrusting Machine keeping his ass nice and full.

Between the steady rubbing at his prostate and the joy of giving damn good head, Bucky’s hard again in no time. His refractory period isn’t as short as Mister Got-the-Real-Serum up there but he can still go a dozen times more than a real—than a _ normal _ man. God, but he wants to reach his limit speared on this man’s cock. He moans as best he can while deep-throating, and Steve moans back, and Steve’s cock starts straining in that telltale way that says he’s about to get fed again. Just as Steve taps his head and warns him, Bucky holds Steve’s cock and hip, pulls back, and closes his eyes, letting hot come splash across his face in thick, dripping stripes.

“Oh my god, Bucky,” Steve chokes, sounding both genuinely shocked and unbearably horny.

“Thank you,” Bucky whispers back with a kiss to the tip of Steve’s cock. Eyes still closed, he feels around for Steve’s hand and guides him to grip that cock, and then into using it to wipe jizz from his cheeks into his mouth, whereupon he sucks and licks the glans clean. Steve catches on fast this time, but he doesn’t rush through feeding the rest of his come to Bucky this way. When Bucky can open his eyes again Steve pushes his dick back down his throat for a few slow, lazy thrusts before pulling away.

Dear god, he’s still hard. Both of them are.

“You are,” Steve pants, “fucking amazing, I can’t believe how good you are, and how sexy you are.”

Bucky glows inside. He very nearly comes just from that praise.

“Alright, sweetheart, turn that thing off and turn around. I’m gonna take over.” He pats Bucky’s shoulder—the_ metal _ one. He’s actually willing to touch that part of him. Bucky’s not a hundred percent sure why but he very nearly sobs about it. Instead he complies, slowing the Machine down to a stop again and groaning loud as he pulls off the huge—fuck, the _ Steve-sized _ dildo. The sensation of his asshole gaping open makes him groan again and bite his lip. Lube drips down his taint; he’s sloppy-wet back there, and so open, perfect for Steve to stuff his cock into and use however he pleases, as many times as he pleases. Other handlers used to love bringing him to this point, too, fisting his asshole till it went cunt-shaped and ready to fit two or even three dicks at a time. The thought of it makes his stomach churn and his dick twitch. Steve might fist him. He’ll have to be careful how he asks, but when he really needs to get filled to bursting and then show off his pretty gape, Steve’s big, gentle hands would really fit the bill—and his hole.

Thinking of double (and greater) penetration brings his mind back to the dildo in front of his face: working quickly, he detaches the dong and affixes another, much more modest, and most importantly, _ clean _ one in its place. He gets back down on all fours, shivering. Just like in his daydream, Steve smooths firm, broad hands up and down Bucky’s back and sides, soothing him like a nervous horse. Still, he can’t help the tremulous little wail he lets out when those hands push his thighs apart and spread his asscheeks. Steve whistles low.

“Oh god, baby, you’re so loose. I bet I could fit my whole hand in there.”

Bucky whimpers. Oh _ fuck _ yes. “Dare you to find out after this round,” he manages.

Steve sticks a few fingers inside, feeling the soft, swollen ring of Bucky’s ravaged anus, eliciting a needy groan. “If that’s what you want, you’re on. You like it big, don’t you, sweetheart.”

“Yeah,” Bucky whimpers again, just like he’s answered the same question dozens of times before—different voices, different languages, none of them half so kind.

“Yeah, big dick for my big guy,” Steve croons, blissfully unaware of the way his words echo the past. “I’m gonna give it to you again, baby, nice and slow, just the way you like it. I’m gonna go slow until you come for me. Then you can turn your friend back on while I finish up.”

Oh, what. That’s_ mean _. And Bucky’s into it.

That pretty blush-pink dildo is hanging right in front of his face. It’s within reach but out of bounds, simply because Steve said so. Well. He’s no stranger to delayed gratification. He stares at it, mouth watering, and imagines his second daydream-Steve kneeling before him, teasing. The real Steve takes his hips in his hands, just like he’d imagined, and drives in and in and _ in _ with a delicious, easy stretch to park his cock balls-deep in Bucky’s _ very _ willing ass.

“Oh, ohhh, oh yes,” Bucky whines, pushing back unsubtly and clenching what little he can. “Finally. Fuck. Finally got you inside of me, thank you, _ thank you _.”

Steve answer with a low, soft groan of his own and a little squeeze of Bucky’s waist. “You feel so good. Bucky, god, Bucky, can’t believe how lucky I am to have you back. Can you still come without touching yourself, honey?”

Bucky shivers again. He’s pretty close to doing so already just from the excitement of his handler feeding him at long last. “Yeah, babe, just takes a little longer.”

Steve bends down to kiss Bucky’s shoulders—first metal, then flesh. He lays himself down against Bucky’s back with one arm looped around his middle and the other still gripping his hip. “Good. That’s so good. That’s what you’re gonna do, baby, and I am gonna make this last as long as I can.”

Well fuck, now Bucky’s crying again and _ still _ doesn’t really know why. Steve starts moving inside him in slow, rolling thrusts that grind them together with all their serum-enhanced strength, with a sharp little buck when they’re flush that Bucky crashes back against and it’s hard enough to ache. Now it’s Steve’s turn to unmake him, and even though they apparently haven’t had sex with each other in decades, he seems to know exactly what to do.

There are little things he remembers vaguely wishing his rapists would do while he was being held down or chained up for fucking, in private “visits” and back-room deals, in lavish parties and “public-use weekends” in secret bases. Certain angles, certain rhythms, certain places he likes to be touched but only ever got by accident. Steve, it seems, knows all of them, and Bucky is so _ full _ and so _ grateful _ and he can’t stop crying.

Steve notices that too, of course, and he stops as soon as he does. “Bucky. Bucky, baby, what’s wrong, does it hurt?”

Bucky shakes his head and swipes at his stupid eyes. “No. No it feels perfect. Please don’t stop.”

Steve rubs little circles on his chest. “Is that ‘please don’t stop’ or is that ‘please comma don’t comma stop’?”

No one’s cared about that distinction in many, many years. Fuck, that’s sad to think about. Bucky huffs a laugh at it and sniffles, “The first one.” He flounders for words, overcome by emotion and monster dick. “It’s. A lot of. Feeling, I guess.”

“I understand that one entirely, pal,” Steve nods against his shoulder. “I’m pretty full of feeling right now too. As long as it’s good feeling we’ll keep going, but if that changes, you gotta promise to let me know.”

Bucky bites his lip. If he says no, it will stop, and he won’t be fed again ever, not by Steve. Fuck that. He’ll deal with crying; he can’t have this taken away.

“Promise,” he lies. If he sinks back into the dark place he’ll just ride it out like always. No one else ever has to know.

Slowly, sweetly, they begin again. He stares at the stock-still dildo in front of him without fully seeing it. It feels like he’s floating in his memories again only present in his body. The past whispering to him speaks of sticky-hot summer nights and snowbound forests. It’s not terror or pain lancing through his insatiable want, but warmth: fuzzy, enveloping, effervescent. It fills his blood and makes his breath catch; the goddamn tears won’t stop, though they have slowed down.

Steve drills into him over and over, pushing their hips together, crushing their bodies close, and kisses his jaw and neck. He shifts his balance onto the metal hand to stroke Steve’s arm with the flesh one. With an adoring little hum, Steve walks his fingers up Bucky’s belly, across his chest, and directly onto a pert, defenseless nipple. Bucky _ squeals _, bucks, and clenches up, and suddenly he’s panting fast and Steve is giving it to him harder than ever. The added sensation stokes the fire inside him to a roar. He pushes back, eager, even though Steve isn’t going nearly fast enough to really bounce him.

“Nuh uh, pal,” Steve murmurs, and clasps him tighter to keep him still. It’s perfectly familiar, being held still so someone can fuck him at their own pace. The strength of that grip and the soft kisses peppering his skin hold the cloying darkness at bay. The pleasure builds, and crests, and_ bursts _ with Steve fucking and coaxing him right through the white-out of his orgasm.

“Good boy,” he says, nuzzling Bucky’s hair as Bucky goes dizzy with the echoes of so many other voices saying the same thing to him before. He tries to hold onto the moment—onto Steve being so gentle, so intense—but his skin is buzzing and he’s losing the battle now.

Steve tweaks the opposite nipple. “My turn. Go ahead, sweetheart, turn it on. I know you wanna suck on that.”

He does want to. His ass is very nearly satiated but he can still go a few rounds with his mouth before he just goes quiet and pliant, present merely for the pleasure of his team. He hitches forward to lick it (grimacing only inward at the taste of silicone), then to suck. His handler croons praise for his cocksucking skills, straightens up, and absolutely _ hammers _ him.

The Machine’s got nothing on this guy. No one has ever matched the Asset for sheer strength before but this one plows into him like he’s on a mission to shatter his pelvis. It _ hurts _ in a bright, wonderful way, and he cries out so suddenly the dick flops out of his mouth. He scrambles to slurp it back down again. In a confusing haze he fiddles with a dial and the silicone dick pushes forward, far enough that a real person would gag, but the Soldier has no such weakness. He relaxes his throat and lets it get fucked, and his ass—well, that’s already been used so nicely he doesn’t _ have _ to relax; he can clench up as tight as he wants and his handler is still strong enough to punch his thick, hard cock through that loosened sphincter.

It’s never been quite like this before. Maybe fisting comes close in intensity, but only due to size; this force has never been equalled. Even actively trying to steady himself his body hitches back and forth, threatening to choke him, making it hard to catch a breath. It is fucking incredible.

His mind goes quiet. His body is there to be filled, and filled, and filled some more. He doesn’t have to think about anything; he feels no worry; all he has to do is obey and take his feeding however his handler wants. He moans openly—or tries to; a few times he does indeed choke, and he’s pretty sure his handler stops and asks if he needs his mouth free but he shakes his head_ no, no, I can do this, I’ll be good _.

The Soldier sighs happily when his handler slams into him a few more times and wet heat fills his ass. It’s a lot of come and he’s so grateful to receive it. He doesn’t feel the change-out but another man must take his handler’s place and starts plowing his oversensitive, sloppy asshole just as hard.

The carpet digs into his knees and right palm. Now and then a particularly forceful thrust will make him squeal and kick his feet. The man’s dick is so deep inside his guts it feels like being skewered, even before the man presses a hand to the Soldier’s belly and pushes in so they can feel just how far inside his cock-head goes. He plays with the Soldier’s cock and nipples, spends a while squeezing his balls, and does the same to the meat of his ass. He’s saying things, kind and wonderful things, but the Soldier doesn’t fully process them in the moment.

This man comes inside him, and the Soldier almost misses the change-out again, but the next one plays with his puffy, cuntlike asshole with the head of his cock for a while until the Soldier is mewling and begging for more. Fingers push dribbling come back into his slutty hole where it belongs and then finally he’s being fucked faster than he can believe. He has to stop sucking the dick in front of him altogether because he can’t stop wailing in mind-blanking ecstasy. So deep, so thick, so hard. He can’t imagine being fucked any more furiously. The man pushes his shoulders down to the floor and rams into him like a deranged beast desperate to sow its seed.

He comes again with his balls getting squeezed and pulled again, and the man adds his mess to the wreckage of the Soldier’s rectum. The next three come just as deep inside him, and the next—oh, god, he’s so ready for the next—

Instead of a cock, he feels fingers. His handler’s voice cuts through the fog.

“Ready for that dare, honey?”

The Soldier scans his mind and comes up with only an impression of intense want, so he nods, and takes the opportunity to resettle his legs.

It’s not just one finger; it’s not two; all four push inside his ruined hole, and there’s the thumb tucked with them. He groans into his hair. It’s fisting time now. He loves fisting time. His handler has long, broad fingers that stretch him wide enough to hurt and he_ loves _ it. He whimpers and moans, and the man murmurs encouragingly as he rocks his lubed hand all the way in to the wrist.

“Mary, mother of god,” his handler swears, “you’re incredible. That’s the whole thing, baby. I bet you could even take more.”

“I can take more,” the Soldier agrees, holding very still save for his twitching cock filling up again. “Keep going. Please.”

So his handler fistfucks him deeper, twisting and reaching, up past the part that’s normally folded over but has been straightened out by toys and cocks. It’s a nice smooth shot right up his ass, and _ fuck _ this man has thick forearms.

“That’s almost to the elbow.” The words sound awed, reverent. “You really _ do _ like it big, huh. I think that’s deep enough. Want me to move some, sweetheart?”

The Soldier sobs and begs for it again. His handler pulls back until the widest part of his hand stretches his asshole outward, then pushes back in nice and slow...out again...back in...a little faster now. He knows he’s babbling, mewling, pleading, he can’t see for the tears and he’s so full, _ so full _, it feels like he’s being raped with a well-lubed telephone pole but it also feels like he might die if the man stops. Faster still, like a great piston punching his straightened colon, and all it takes is the butt of that hand dragging across his overtaxed prostate one more time to take his cock from drooling a puddle of precome to shooting the real deal all over the carpet in bursts so intense it feels like they should drive right through the floor. He’s sobbing in earnest afterward: he’s reached his limit, he can’t take anymore, please no more, please just a moment before they start again.

When he comes down off the orgasm enough that he can hear his own words, the thought of what will happen if that fist and arm withdraw too fast makes him suck in a terrified breath. But instead of getting his guts pulled out, it happens nice and slow—a little too slow, as oversensitive as he is right now, it’s finally gotten to where it _ hurts _ in less fun ways. But the withdrawal is gentle, and he damn near collapses when he’s empty again.

Still can feel his asshole gaping open, though, and his handler shocks him by kissing the cum-drenched rim of it. He expects to be pushed down and mounted again, but instead he gets gathered up in large, powerful arms and _ held _ : not held _ down _ , but held _ close _ as if he was some precious, fragile thing.

His handler is murmuring soothing things to him and petting his hair again. Praising him: _ you were so good for me, you did so well _ , and _ I missed you so much, my sweet love. _ Things...no one in Hydra’s ever said to him. Things they wouldn’t. Things that he’s only ever heard from….

“Steve,” he gasps. Bucky trembles in those big strong arms and lays his head on that big strong chest. He rubs at his eyes to clear the tears from them. They’ve made his eyelashes clump together. God, he must look a mess.

“I’m right here, pal,” Steve Rogers assures him with a kiss to his sweaty forehead. “Felt like you went away a little there. You don’t have to come back all at once. We can just sit here for a moment. We’re done for tonight, sweetheart, now you can rest.”

The Soldier—Bucky—nods quietly and lets the fog of sex and flashbacks slowly lift off of his mind. Steve is humming to him now, he realizes, still petting and massaging soft as whispers. The tune prickles at the back of his mind but he can’t place it well enough to anticipate it, even when Steve starts singing just as soft.

“_ Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é, mo leanbh  
_ _ Mo sheoid gan cealg, mo chuid gan tsaoil mhór_  
_ Seothín seo ho, nach mór é an taitneamh_  
_Mo stóirín na leaba, na chodladh gan brón.”_

Somewhere in the misty recesses of his brain there’s a woman’s voice singing this instead. Bucky furrows his brow and ventures, “Sarah.”

Steve gives him a smile that’s too adoring to comprehend. “Ma, yeah. She used to sing it to us when we were little.”

He got her name from the Smithsonian a few months ago. Steve gets upset when he doesn’t remember, so sometimes it’s easier just to let him think he does. And some things, it’s easier to let him think aren’t there to remember at all.

Bucky nestles deeper into Steve’s arms. He should try harder to be Bucky for real. Try harder to remember what they had together, more than he remembers the horrors of captivity. Hell, Steve gets upset if he says the word “handler” to describe him. Maybe it’s time to learn—to relearn—how to relate to him as something else. Maybe getting fed will make that easier; maybe not. But he knows he doesn’t want it to ever stop.

It takes a moment to remember he’s allowed to ask for things. “Kiss me?”

Steve beams and him, takes him gently by the chin, and says, “I’ll kiss you forever,” just before their lips touch.

And Bucky wishes desperately he could remember how they used to kiss before.

_ end. _


End file.
